


Payment and Payback

by sparxwrites



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, Food Kink, M/M, Oral Sex, Stuffing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-23 14:31:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7466976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the lasagna debacle last week, the last thing Strife wanted to see upon arriving back at Strife Towers was Parvis, in his kitchen yet again. But life was cruel, and Parvis was an ass. So, when he returned home after a long day's mining in the Nether, it was to a blood mage darting around his kitchen, humming softly to himself under his breath – an eerie little tune, quiet and disconcerting, despite how cheerful Parvis looked.</p><p>Dumping his backpack onto the kitchen table with a loud thunk, and drawing in a deep breath in an attempt to control his temper, Strife cleared his throat. “Parvis!” he snapped, when that got no response. “What the hell are you doing in my goddamn kitchen? Again?”</p><p>(In which Parvis makes a casserole to replace the lasagna from last week, and manages some very enjoyable payback in the process.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Payment and Payback

After the lasagna debacle last week, the last thing Strife wanted to see upon arriving back at Strife Towers was Parvis, in his kitchen yet again.

But life was cruel, and Parvis was an ass. So, when he returned home after a long day's mining in the Nether, it was to a blood mage darting around his kitchen, humming softly to himself under his breath – an eerie little tune, quiet and disconcerting, despite how cheerful Parvis looked.

Dumping his backpack onto the kitchen table with a loud _thunk_ , and drawing in a deep breath in an attempt to control his temper, Strife cleared his throat. “Parvis!” he snapped, when that got no response. “What the _hell_ are you doing in my goddamn kitchen? _Again_?”

Parvis jumped a near foot in the air at the sound of Strife's voice, the humming transitioning abruptly into a sharp yelp as he spun around. There was an odd look on his face – almost guilty, almost apologetic, almost _sly_. “Strife! Strifey. Hi.”

It wasn't a comforting expression, and Strife's scowl deepened. “If you're raiding my fridge again…” he growled, trailing off. His expression and tone of voice spoke volumes as to _what_ , exactly, he'd do to Parvis, far more than any threat he could make.

“What – you didn't enjoy last week?” shot Parvis back, regaining his composure enough to smirk at Strife, cocking one hip to lean against the counter. It was only then that Strife noticed his hands were dusted with flour, a pale, powdery white replacing the usual streaks of russet-red dried blood. “I don't seem to remember you objecting at the time…” His grin widened. “In fact, I don't remember you saying much of _anything_ , other than _oh, Parvis, Parvis!_ -”

Strife growled, again, stalking past Parvis to wash the grime of the Nether off his hands in the sink, water running brownish-red with netherwrack dust as he scrubbed it away. “Shut up, Parvis.” He was aware it wasn't the most elegant retort, but most of his attention was taken up with the effort of not letting his face flush at the memory – Parvis beneath him, breathing heavily, trying to writhe despite the weight of his stuffed-solid, bulging stomach pinning him to the couch… “Look, just- what are you doing in my kitchen?”

Something in Strife's voice – the quiet, resigned exhaustion of a day's hard work – softened Parvis' expression. He slipped from almost cruelly teasing back to that strange, sly guilt in the space of a breath, still leaning against the counter. “I felt bad, y'know, Strifey. For eating all your dinner the other day…”

“That'd be a first,” muttered Strife, under his breath, turning the tap off and shaking the excess water off his hands into the sink. As far as he could tell, Parvis had never felt bad for anything in his entire life.

“-so I thought I'd make you some new dinner! To, y’know, make up for the old dinner. And say _sorry_. Sort of.” Parvis paused, grinning widely, expression unreadably gleeful as always. “It's already in the oven, it should be done any minute. I did good, didn't I, Strifey? Tell me I did good!”

For a long moment, the only thing Strife could manage was stunned silence, turning slowly as he wiped his hands on his pants to stare at Parvis. “…You can cook?” he asked, bemused and surprised enough to miss the odd expression on Parvis' face as he looked Strife up and down – sharp, hungry, edged with the slightest hint of arousal bordering on adoration. “I didn't know you could cook.”

Then again, there was probably plenty he didn't know Parvis could do. Parvis was a lazy asshole, and would never do _anything_ if he thought there was a chance he could get someone else to do it for him – simple tasks like cooking included.

“Of course I can, Strifey!” said Parvis, sounding a little offended. “You didn't think I was _starving_ to death in my big old castle, did you? Because if you did, and you didn't come and help me, well. That's kind of mean, Will. That you'd just let me _starve_ to death.” He stuck out his lower lip, pink and shiny, in an overly dramatic pout, looking for all the world like a kicked puppy.

Strife sighed, heavily. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, flapping a hand in Parvis' general direction. "Whatever." He couldn't deny that the thought of already-prepared dinner was appealing – provided Parvis' cooking was edible, that was. After nearly twelve hours of mining, dodging lava, and running from pigmen, he'd _really_ not been looking forward to spending another half-hour on his feet making something. “When did you say it’s going to be ready?”

The words had barely left his mouth when a timer somewhere dinged cheerily, and Parvis pushed away from the counter, hurrying over to the oven. “Now!” he said, brightly, grabbing a tea towel to open the oven and reach in. The smell that drifted out, Strife had to admit, was delicious, bordering on heavenly – though that could have just been the hunger talking. “See, I told you it would be ready soon! I timed it perfectly. I'm a _genius_ , really, no one appreciates how _clever_ I am.”

Despite rolling his eyes at Parvis' usual dramatics, Strife couldn't help but crane his neck to look at peer at the food. It was in a large, ceramic dish, the same one he'd made the lasagna in, and looked to be some sort of casserole, hot and bubbling and freshly prepared. Free from the oven, the smell filled the whole room, thick and rich and meaty, and he felt his stomach clench. _God_ , he was hungry.

Whilst Parvis was fussing with plates and spoons and some other bowl full of what looked like various green vegetables, Strife decided to make himself useful. Digging around in the cutlery drawer and the cupboard above the sink, he set the table – two sets of cutlery, two glasses, and a jug of cool tap water topped up with ice from the freezer.

If Parvis had invited himself over for dinner, which he apparently had, then Strife was going to try his damn hardest to be a gracious host.

 _Unlike last time_ , he thought to himself – and then hurriedly tried not to, as the memories surfaced again. Parvis, sat gasping and pink-faced at this very table, one hand on his swollen stomach and the other clutching white-knuckled at his fork… He could feel his own stomach clenching at the memory, the leaves between his legs shifting ever so slightly, and pushed it forcibly out of his mind until the arousal subsided.

“Dinner,” announced Parvis, brightly, dragging Strife from his thoughts, “is served! Come on, Strifey, come sit down and eat up.” He was bouncing impatiently next to a chair he’d pulled out, apparently for Strife, looking expectant and oddly excited. “It's going to be _delicious_.”

Allowing himself a small grunt of doubt in response, even though the dinner certainly _smelled_ delicious, Strife sat himself down in the proffered chair and watched Parvis scramble round the other side and slip into his own seat. He couldn't help but notice, though, as Parvis sat down, that his own plate was piled considerably higher than Parvis' – a very generous portion of casserole complemented by a large serving of vegetables despite the vegetable bowl being set on the table between the two of them. By comparison, Parvis' serving was far more reasonable.

There were plenty of reasonable reasons for that, though, he reassured himself. Parvis had probably had a big lunch, and wasn't as hungry – or he was being thoughtful, for once in his life, and had realised Strife was probably hungrier than usual after a day of manual labour. It was totally reasonable, and he was being paranoid.

Ignoring the niggling voice at the back of his mind, Strife picked up his knife and fork and dug in. The dinner was, indeed, delicious. The potatoes were soft, the meat was tender, the vegetables well-cooked without being soggy… not that he'd ever admit that to Parvis, lest the praise go to his head.

They ate in silence, mostly, other than the occasional hum of contentment, or Parvis raising his voice to beg a compliment off of Strife regarding how good the food tasted. It was only when Strife finished his casserole and most of the vegetables – perhaps a little faster than was wise, but he was _starving_ , after all – and Parvis immediately whisked his plate away that he spoke up.

“…Parvis…?” he asked, hesitant confusion in his voice. It was hard to be too alarmed when he was warm and relaxed and had a stomach full of good food. “Any particular reason you’ve, uh, stolen my plate?”

“I’m sure you want seconds, right, Strifey?” said Parvis – and if Strife heard the slight tremble to his voice, then he very carefully didn’t think about what it meant. “I mean… you’ve been working all day, right? You’re probably _really_ hungry.”

He wasn’t that hungry any more, not thanks to the generous portion of food Parvis had already provided him with, but… he wasn’t _completely_ full, and it seemed rude to refuse, when Parvis had been so uncharacteristically generous in making the dinner. “Uh,” muttered Strife, scratching at his chin as he thought for a second. “I mean- yeah. Yeah, sure, Parvis. Seconds sounds good.”

Parvis’ sly smile widened, and he hurried off, returning with Strife’s plate piled high yet again with food. Taking a deep breath, Strife picked up his knife and fork as Parvis set the plate down in front of him, and dug in – slower than before, but at a steady pace, and with no small amount of enthusiasm. The casserole was, after all, delicious.

Despite his initial determination, Strife made it barely half-way through the plate before he began to struggle. Setting his fork down on his plate, he exhaled slowly, reaching for his glass of water as he swallowed, and then swallowed again, trying to ease the low ache beginning to build in his stomach. The casserole, though tasty, was also incredibly filling, heavy with meat and potatoes. Despite his best attempts, and his unwillingness to appear rude by refusing to eat the food Parvis had provided for him, he knew he was going to struggle to finish the plate.

Dropping a hand below the table to his front, Strife pressed a hand against his protesting stomach, rubbing absent circles on it automatically to try and ease the discomfort. It wasn’t _entirely_ unpleasant, he had to admit – there was a satisfying fullness to the sensation, a haziness as the warmth of a good meal suffused his body, that far outweighed the faint strain of having eaten too much.

“It-” muttered Parvis, and there was an odd rasp to his voice, rough with raw arousal. “It helps if you unbutton your pants.”

Strife, caught with one hand massaging the faint curve of his aching stomach, froze, and looked up very, very slowly. “… _Oh_ ,” he managed, voice very small. “Oh. That's, ah- _that's_ what we're doing, is it?"”

It was stupid, such a stupid idea – especially after last week, and all the mistakes he'd made then, all the poor life choices that had come spilling out of him in Parvis' presence as they always did, but... he couldn't deny it was appealing. His cheeks were colouring a faintly luminescent green at the mere thought of it, embarrassment rising hot and flushed up his chest and past the collar of his shirt.

“If you want to,” breathed Parvis, an unbearable intensity in his dark, liquid eyes as he stared at Strife across the table. “If you want to, Strifey, then- yeah.”

Silently, eyes lock with Parvis’, Strife picked up his fork again.

There was a quiet noise from across the table, a poorly-stifled groan of arousal. “Holy _shit_ ,” whispered Parvis, scrubbing a hand through his hair, his own mostly-finished dinner now sitting ignored in front of him. He licked his lips, staring unabashedly at Strife, wide-eyed, as he ate.

When Strife finished this time, Parvis didn’t even bother to wait for Strife to set his cutlery down. He stood up with a scrape of chair leg against stone floor and took Strife’s plate, pacing off to fill it with more casserole. Strife, sitting slumped back in his chair to try and stretch out a little, ease the strain on his faintly-bulging stomach and the waistband of his trousers, groaned.

When Parvis came back with the plate, setting it down in front of Strife, he didn’t go back to his seat. Instead, he sat down in the chair next to Strife, turned towards him, practically vibrating with nervous energy. “Can I…?” he asked, licking his lips – and didn’t wait for an answer before reaching out to press a hand to Strife’s stomach.

Instinctively, Strife tried to suck in his gut, pulling away from the touch.

Parvis was surprisingly gentle, though – he didn’t prod or pinch or poke, just rested his hand on Strife’s belly, cool and still, sighing quietly in an almost dreamy manner. It hurt too much to hold his stomach in for more than a few seconds, so eventually Strife relaxed, letting the full weight of his belly and the food in it push out again. Parvis made a hitching little noise in the back of his throat at the sudden movement, choking down a quiet moan, and Strife couldn’t help but grin a little.

It was so _good_ , having Parvis giddy with arousal like this, having Parvis’ hands on him in gentle worship. Certainly, the attention and fussing made him feel oddly warm, and the quiet, delighted noises Parvis was making were incredibly gratifying.

Unable to keep a slight smile off his face, Strife picked up his fork and began eating again.

The third plate was harder than the other two, by far. He was already _full_ , full enough that usually he would have stopped eating a while back. Full enough that he felt achey, a little queasy, bloated and bulging – and he definitely was, he could see that just by looking down, eyeing the way his stomach was now sticking out. It was almost unsettling, seeing such a drastic, sudden change to his body, and Strife suspected it would have freaked him out if it wasn’t also so strangely _hot_.

Parvis was still watching him with wide-eyed arousal, and the hand on his belly had begun to move, slow, soothing circles that eased the pain of his over-stuffed stomach. Breathing slowly and steadily, eating even more slowly and steadily, Strife ate his way through the third plate of casserole, huffing and puffing quietly as the bulging weight of his stomach increased. It was hard to breathe, a little, through the heaviness of it, the way all the free space inside him seemed to be taken up with food and his slowly expanding stomach.

He couldn’t deny, though, that it felt fantastic – stuffed full, warm, with Parvis massaging his rounded stomach with a gentle hand. The only problem was the pressure of the waistband of his trousers, which he’d forgotten to undo. Stopping to undo them, though, seemed impossible. If he stopped now, he’d never start again. So, trying to ignore the way his trousers were increasingly digging into the soft, bloated swell of his belly, Strife concentrated on clearing the last few bites on his plate.

As he forced the last mouthful of casserole down, swallowing through sheer determination, the almost-unbearable pressure of his waistband suddenly… eased. He paused, fork half-way back to resting on his plate – and, over the quiet rasps of his and Parvis’ slow breathing, heard the unmistakeable sound of a button hitting the floor.

“Fuck,” moaned Parvis, into the frozen silence that followed. One hand dropped almost reflexively to between his legs as Strife stared down in disbelief, fingers creeping under the curve of his stomach to feel the space where the button used to be.

Instead, there was only a small bundle of thread, and the zipper pushed half-undone by the pressure of his stomach against his waistband, and he felt himself flush pale green at the realisation that he'd just managed to break his trousers with how much he'd eaten. “Fuck, that's _hot_ , Will. It's not fair, the things you do to me....”

Parvis' hands crept out to touch Strife's stomach again, feeling the hard swell of it beneath his button-up shirt. It wasn't quite full, perfectly taut, but it was close – already warmer than usual due to the amount of food packed into it to digest, and evidently aching from the fact that a slow circle with one of Parvis' palms was enough to draw a groan of relief from Strife.

He reached down below Strife's stomach, nudging Strife's own hand out the way to tug the zipper the rest of the way down. “There,” he breathed, biting his lip at the way Strife exhaled and slumped when the pressure eased. “There, that's better, isn't it?” His hands crept up over the swell of Strife's belly again, catching the hem of Strife's shirt and tugging it up until his stomach was freed and the shirt bunched up under his arms. “ _God_ , your're so-” He couldn't find a word other than _gorgeous_ , and tasted blood in his mouth as his teeth sunk deep enough into his lip to break it. “You're fucking amazing. And so _good_ , Strifey. If I'd known you could be this good for me, I'd have done this _ages_ ago.”

With the shirt pulled up and his pants undone, it was even more obvious exactly how much Strife had eaten, how big he'd gotten. Although he hadn't eaten as much as Parvis had the week before – yet – and was broader than Parvis, stockier, it was still an almost shocking sight to see how far his stomach protruded. It was rounded, more like a beach ball than the belly he was used to, and still soft enough for Parvis' wandering hands could prod and press into it, pinching and tugging at spare bits of flesh despite Strife's twitches and gasps of protest.

“...How much is left?” asked Strife, heavily, glancing over at the casserole dish on the counter. From where he was sitting, he couldn't see its contents, and didn't feel like moving to try, given the weight of food inside him.

Parvis paused and looked up at him, eyes wide. “Strifey..." he managed, sounding a little awed. "You want _more_?” His hands stopped tugging and prodding, went back to drawing slow circles on the heated, flushed skin of Strife's bulging belly. “Oh my _god_ , you're so hot. So good.”

One of Parvis free hands, Strife noticed, had dropped between his legs. It wasn't all too hard to make out the outline his cock against the dark of his skinny jeans, given how the fabric clung to it, and Strife licked his lips, feeling his sheath throb in response.

“Yeah,” he said, with more confidence than he felt, licking at his lips and resting a hand on his stomach as it gurgled quietly. “There's- a little bit more room in there, I think. Just about.” He exhaled, slowly, trying to ease the heavy pressure despite knowing it'd do nothing to help the low, throbbing ache of too much food.

Parvis didn't need to be told twice. His hand slipped away from Strife's stomach, and he stumbled up from his chair, a little clumsy from arousal, grabbing Strife's plate.

He came back with it loaded high with the remains of the casserole, and Strife's heart sank a little at exactly _how much_ food there was on it. There was no way he was going to be able to manage all of that, no matter how determined he was. There just wasn't that much _room_ inside him, belly already close to drum-tight with how much he'd stuffed into it.

“That's all of it!” said Parvis, brightly. He must have seen something in Strife's eyes, because his expression turned sly and pleading again, voice wheedling. “I'm _sure_ you can take it, Strifey, can't you? Just this little bit more? For me? You can be good and manage this, can't you?”

Strife’s head said _no_ , but his mouth, faced with Parvis' wide eyes, said, “Yes _._ ”

The first few mouthfuls were difficult, but doable. Five forkfuls in, though, chewing and swallowing turned from an effort into nigh-impossible. His stomach was gurgling and groaning, full, _beyond_ full – but still filling as Strife kept on, forcing forkful after forkful down his throat and into his already-stuffed belly.

Parvis had to feed him the last few bites, whispering words of praise and encouragement and arousal as he pressed the fork to Strife's mouth until Strife opened up and accepted the food. He could do little other than lie slumped in his chair, breathing hard, groaning quietly as the ache in his gut turned to a fire, the warm heat of it to a flame.

His stomach stuck straight out, no give to it at all, just a smooth, bulging curve. His hands, resting on it, could feel how full he was – stuffed tight as he could go, bulging, belly protruding out several inches further than he had previously thought was possible. The skin was taut under his trailing fingertips, a soft, faint green all over.

He was abruptly grateful, as he opened his mouth and accepted yet another mouthful of food, swallowing and feeling his stomach swell further, that Parvis had pushed his shirt up. He was certain that the buttons on that would have popped off already if he hadn’t.

“Last one,” murmured Parvis quietly, eyes wide and dark, watching Strife intently. Strife realised, with a jolt, that he was right – the plate was scraped clean, or as clean as Parvis could manage, the remaining food piled neatly on a fork hovering in front of his mouth. “You can do this, can’t you, Strifey? For me?”

Swallowing hard, Strife opened his mouth, and let Parvis feed him the last, heavenly bite of casserole.

“ _Shit_ ,” breathed Parvis, dropping the fork with a clatter of metal against china as soon as he’d pulled it free from Strife’s mouth. “Can I-?” He didn't wait for an answer before reaching out, trailing fingertips over the sensitive skin. Rather than massaging it, though, he caught the hem of Strife's shirt and began tugging it down.

If Strife had thought the pressure was unbearable before, it was nothing to how he felt as Parvis slowly worked the fabric down over the obscene, stuffed bulge of his stomach. There was no room to suck his stomach in, no more space inside him for his distended gut to flatten any, but the fabric had no give – and so flatten it did, the shirt straining against the seams, the space between the buttons pulled wide open to show glimpses of warm, blood-flushed skin between, Strife sobbing quietly at the impossible pressure of it.

When Parvis finally relented – breathing heavily, a dark stain soaked into the front of his pants – and pulled the shirt back up again, Strife practically cried out with relief. His stomach stuck out again, the imprints of the shirt in fading lines down the front of it, seeming almost impossibly larger after having crammed it into his usual clothes.

“ _Fuck_ ,” whined Parvis, and Strife could see the hand between his legs moving with more determination, more focus. He had to be close, _had_ to be. “Fuck, Strifey, it's- it's unfair, how fucking hot you are, like this.” He whined again, the noise low in the back of his throat, barely audible over Strife's heavy breathing.

“Parvis,” mumbled Strife, no breath for words, no room to fill his lungs, no _space_ left inside him. “Parvis, _please_.”

He wasn’t even sure what he was asking for- _begging_ for, but Parvis seemed to know. With a quiet, tender shushing sound, he reached out, settling both of his hands on the swell of Strife’s stomach, palms gentle and long, clever fingers massaging Strife’s tender flesh. “Shh, Will,” he murmured, leaning forward to press an oddly chaste kiss to the bolt of Strife’s jaw. “Don’t worry. Parvy-Parv will look after you.”

Like this, Strife could understand why Parvis had been so damn _noisy_. The low ache in his gut, the pressure and heat of his swollen stomach, his own hyper-awareness of the huge amount of food he’d crammed into himself… it made every touch feel like a spark, the barest brush of fingers sending lightning down his spine, more slick pooling in his already-soaked boxers. Against the warmth of his skin, the brush of Parivs’ unnaturally cool fingers was a blessed relief, more than he could bear in silence.

Unbidden, a whimper escaped him, a sharp sound of distress slipping out on the exhale.

Some of the almost-tender amusement slipped off of Parvis’ face at the sound, a flash of arousal beneath his usual mischievous mask. “Fuck,” he muttered, white teeth digging into his lower lip until it reddened with the pressure, fingers tracing circling patterns on the bare skin of Strife’s stomach all the while. “It’s not _fair_ , y’know, Strifey. The things you do to me. How _good_ you look – how good you _are_. So good, just for me.”

There was a retort on the tip of Strife’s tongue, a blush rising high on his cheeks. Any response he might have had, though, fled his mind as Parvis’ fingers drew a slow circle on his stomach again and a moan rose, unbidden, in his throat.

“ _God_ ,” Parvis whispered, sliding off his own chair in a motion made graceless and clumsy by the arousal that now had a stranglehold around his brain. “You’re so fucking-” He pressed a hand against each side of the huge swell of Strife’s stomach, feeling the heat of it, the weight of it, how taut the skin was. There was no give to it, anywhere, despite the small layer of puppy-fat Strife wore around his middle.

“ _Parvis_ ,” Strife groaned, the word catching in his throat, the closest to a sob Parvis had ever heard from him. It was too much, all too much – the heavy, swollen weight of food inside him, the touch against his sensitive skin, the low throb of arousal building to unbearable heights between his legs.

“ _Fuck_ ,” breathed Parvis, eyes wide and dark, pupils blown so huge with arousal that he looked almost _demonic_. “Strife, _Strife_ , you're so gorgeous, so _good_ \- please, can I- can I- _please_.”

When Strife leaned in to kiss him, he tasted of copper, thick and bitter. “Whatever- whatever you want, Parvis,” he managed as he pulled away, voice raw and wrecked – from the kiss, from the touching, from the slow build of tension all evening that had started the moment he'd seen Parvis in the kitchen. With the weight of the food he was attempting to digest making him sleepy and muzzy-headed on top of the cloud of arousal dragging him under, he couldn't deny Parvis anything.

Moaning, Parvis slipped off the chair moving in a sinuous motion to kneel between Strife's legs as he pawed at the broken button and zipper of Strife's trousers. “Get these off,” he whined, tugging at the waistband of Strife's boxers as well, pushed down by the expanding swell of his body. “Get them _off_ , Strifey, I want to see your cute glowy bits again.”

“ _God_ ,” muttered Strife, voice shaky with arousal as he stared down at Parvis on the floor. “I- I don't know if I can.”

It was humiliating to admit it, but he wasn't sure he could move that much right now, not without making the low ache in his stomach unbearably worse. He pressed a hand to the front of his own stomach, a shiver running down his spine at the warmth of it, how far it was protruding. The space between his legs throbbed again, slick with arousal, desperate to be filled. “I can't- Parvis, I can't move that much.”

“Just lift your hips,” said Parvis, impatiently, already working on tugging Strife's trousers down as far as they'd go without him lifting himself from the chair. “Just enough to get them off, _c'mon_ , Strifey, I wanna taste you-”

Gripping the sides of the chair, tentatively, Strife braced himself and _lifted_. It was an effort, and the jostle to his stomach made him moan with quiet pain, the huge amount of food stuffed inside it protesting the movement – but by the time he was settled back in the chair, Parvis had his trousers and boxers down around his ankles.

He got barely a half-second to breathe, recovering from the exertion and rubbing his own stomach, before Parvis was grabbing at the hard muscle of his thighs to spread them wider – and pushing his own face right up into the vee of Strife's legs.

There was no hesitation to his movement, no shyness. Strife's sheath, leaves already parted, lined with cilia and glowing a luminescent, brilliant green, might not be exactly what he was used to, but he could _definitely_ work with it.

The sound that Strife let out as Parvis pushed his tongue inside, lapping curiously at the cilia and tasting again that strange, citrus-bitter taste of the alien slick, only confirmed that he was right to be confident. He moaned, broken and cracked, and slumped even further back in the chair, pushing his hips up towards Parvis' face – already smeared with green all over his cheeks and mouth and chin.

The movement stuck his stomach out further, made his legs spread wider, but he barely seemed to notice, lost in the twin sensations of Parvis' tongue inside him and the obscene stretch of his stomach. His hands left his stomach and groped blindly downwards, seeking Parvis’ hair and winding in it to drag him even closer.

Parvis pulled away just long enough for Strife to get a glimpse of his slick-smeared face and wide grin, for Parvis to murmur, “You taste _delicious_.” Then he was back at work, burying his face between Strife’s legs again.

It was all Strife could do to hold onto Parvis’ hair, gripping it tight enough it had to be making Parvis’ scalp ache, and try to breathe through not only the swollen, obscene weight of his bulging stomach but the low throb of insistent arousal being fanned into a flame by Parvis’ ministrations.

Within minutes, he was panting. Parvis had a warm, talented tongue, and Strife was already half-way there from an entire dinner’s worth of foreplay. He’d been wet and open since the minute Parvis had run a hand over the food-heavy, taut skin of his belly, waiting for this moment – and now, with Parvis licking into him sloppily, spearing him open with his tongue, he knew it wouldn’t take long for him to be lost.

When Parvis pushed fingers inside him as well, two sliding easily into the slippery-wetness of his sheath, already opened up by Parvis’ very determined and talented tongue, Strife knew he was gone. Head lolling back, eyes half-lidded, he panted, grinding down against Parvis’ fingers as much as he could with the heavy ache of his stomach preventing him moving.

In the end, even that was too much. He was reduced to lying there, helpless, as Parvis fucked him open easily with two fingers and his tongue. All he could do was clench around the thickness inside of him, gasp and moan when Parvis’ tongue brushed slick against his cilia, and pray for release soon – for something to tip him over the edge.

He found it, soon enough, in the sensation of Parvis’ tongue pushing deep into him with a wet, languid thrust as he clenched down, Parvis’ lips closing over his sheath opening and _sucking_ – and Parvis’ hand reaching up to drag light fingertips down the swollen bulge of his stuffed belly.

He came with a yell, grinding forward into Parvis’ touch as the hot pressure building in his stomach released in lightning up his spine and down his thighs. Clenching down even tighter around Parvis’ fingers, he sobbed his way through his orgasm, slick dripping out of him in spurts and staining Parvis’ already-messy face with yet more luminescent green.

Gasping for breath, Strife rested a hand on the obscene curve of his stomach, and stared down. Parvis, lips curled upwards in a slick-slippery grin with his hands in the front of his pants, grinned back up at him.

“God, Parvis,” Strife murmured, trying to pull his head together in the scattered-pleasure aftermath of one of the most intense orgasms he’d ever had. His entire body felt lax and weightless from the force of it, the heavy weight of his stomach the only thing stopping him from floating off into light-headed pleasure. “ _God_. You’re going to be the death of me, one day, you know?”

Parvis, panting open-mouthed, smirking like the cat who’d just gotten the cream, said nothing – and began to slowly, slowly lick the luminescent green from his fingers.


End file.
